Holder of Lightning

by S L Farrell

  Street vendors appeared as if by summoned by magic. Booths were hastily erected around the main square of Dun Kiil, selling everything from hand crafts to potions. Street musicians, jugglers, and sleight-of-hand magicians stood on every corner. Bright banners were hung around the square and from the tessellated walls of the Keep high above. Carts groaning under the weight of apples, early corn, freshly slaughtered pigs, and new-brewed ale rumbled into town from the outlying farmlands. A sense of desperate gaiety infected the population; there was talk of little else. The Comhairle suspended their meetings (though Jenna suspected that the Banrion, Tiarna MacEagan and Banti arna Cíomhsóg still gathered to talk), and the lesser Riocha and céili giallnai came in from the nearby townships, filling the inns and the taverns and swelling the population of Dún Kiil.

  Jenna and Ennis moved through the laughing, shouting throngs in the street. As they walked from between the pair of standing stones that marked the entrance to the square, Ennis stopped Jenna and pointed. To their right, a juggler with a hatchet, flaming torch, and dagger wove bright, dangerous patterns in the air. As they moved closer to watch, despite her determination to keep this a day strictly for merrymaking, the sight of the juggler made Jenna think of the choices she was juggling herself: to side with the Banrion and attack the Tuatha now; to go back to the Order and learn more from Máister Cléurach, knowing that the Tuatha would almost certainly invade the is land ; to seek the path of Thall Coill and the Scrúdú, wherever that might lead. Perilous choices all, with their own keen edges ready to cut, and she wondered how long she could keep them all in the air before she had to choose one.

  “He’s good, isn’t he?” Ennis said. Jenna started, then smiled at him.

  “Aye,” she answered. “He is.” She dropped a mórceint in the juggler’s hat; the boy grinned at her and tossed the torch high, letting it spin several times as he struck the ax head deep into a small log standing end up to his right, jabbed the dagger point first into the wood alongside the quivering ax, then caught the torch before it hit the ground and blew it out. He bowed extravagantly. Jenna and Ennis applauded, as did the small crowd that had gathered around to watch.

  “You make that look easy. What’s the hardest thing about juggling?” Ennis asked the juggler as he laid the smoking torch atop the log.

  The boy chuckled and reached down into a large cloth bag behind him. He brought out three leather balls, juggling them high and slowly so that they could easily see the pattern. “There’s just one ball in the air and two in your hands,” he said as he juggled. “It’s that simple.” He stopped and handed the balls to Ennis. “Try it,” he said with a grin. “Start with two in your right hand and toss one of them high over to your left hand.”

  Ennis shook his head and started to hand the balls back, but Jenna laughed. “No, no, no,” she told him. “You asked the question. Now you have to try.”

  Ennis grimaced. Standing spread-legged, he tossed the balls up in the air—right, left, right—and they all plopped immediately to the ground. Jenna and several of the people watching applauded laughingly. The juggler grinned. “You just have to remember that the ground always wins, Tiarna, Bantiarna.” He reached down, flipped the torch up and caught it. “The Mother-Creator designed our world so that when you toss something up, it comes back down. That makes juggling possible, but it also means that no matter how good you are, eventually you’ll make a mistake.” He pulled ax, dagger, and unlit torch from the log and started the cascade again: ax, dagger, torch, ax, dagger, torch, ax—but this time they saw the dagger spin a little faster, so that it turned over one and half times, starting to come down into the juggler’s hand blade first. With a comic expression of horror, he snatched his hand back at the last instant. The dagger clattered on the cobblestones of the street. “You just have to know when something’s about to cut you and remember to let it go,” he said.

  The boy adroitly slipped his toes under the blade near the hilt and kicked the dagger back into the air—and suddenly he was juggling again. Jenna and Ennis applauded once more, watching for a bit before tossing another coin in the boy’s hat and walking on. “I think you missed a career as a street performer,” Jenna told Ennis.

  “I think you just enjoy seeing me make a fool of myself.”

  Jenna laughed and pulled him close, hugging him. “I love being with you,” she said. “I enjoy not having to think about anything for a few hours.” She felt Ennis’ muscles tense under her hand. “What?” she asked.

  They stopped. Ennis pretended to look at the cloth hung at a weaver’s stall. “I can tell you want to say something,” Jenna said. “What?”

  “I spoke to Máister Cléurach this morning, before we left.”

  “And?”

  “He feels very strongly that you should come back to Inishfeirm. He believes that the more of the cloudmage discipline you can learn before the invasion comes—and we all know it’s coming—the better chance we’ll all have.”

  “And what does he think of the Banrion’s plan?”

  A shoulder lifted his clóca. “He understands her position but doesn’t agree. No army’s ever come to Inish Thuaidh and conquered it. And no Inish army has ever left here to invade the Tuatha.”

  “No army’s ever had this many Cloch Mór with them,” Jenna answered. “And no Rí Árd has ever put together an alliance of all the Tuatha, and if this one has . . .”

  Another shrug. They moved away from the weaver’s stall to the next, a potter’s booth, bright with glazed mugs and bowls. Ennis picked up a bowl: golden brown swirled with blue. “So you agree with the Banrion: strike first before they strike us.”

  Jenna sighed. “I don’t know who I agree with,” she said.

  “Attack first, or wait. You don’t have any other options. At least none that I can see.”

  There’s Thall Coill . . . she thought, but didn’t voice it, forcing the thought away. The day was bright and warm, and the festival atmosphere filled Dun Kiil, and she wanted nothing more than to forget for a few stripes the decision ahead of her and just enjoy herself. Her hand brushed Ennis’, and she tangled her fingers in his. “Shut up,” she said.

  He looked at her, startled, and saw her smile gentle the words. “We don’t have to talk about this now,” she said. “Tomorrow is soon enough.”

  “But—” he began, then stopped himself. He took her hand and put it behind his back, pulling her close and kissing her. Jenna leaned into him, reveling in his presence, in the affection that radiated from him. He had, all unexpected, become her sanity in this. When she was with him, she felt complete, as if he been designed to sustain a part of her, as Lámh Shábhála had fulfilled another part.

  It was never like this with Coelin. Never. This is what my mam must have felt for my da . . . With that thought came its corollary: And what she feels now for Mac Ard, also. She recalled her last sight of Mac Ard, screaming with the pain of his loss as they left Banshaigh and Lough Glas. Jenna’s fingers convulsed around Ennis’. He returned the press of fingers, his other hand trailing down Jenna’s spine as he held her, and she let the memory go.

  “Let’s not talk about anything but ourselves today,” she whispered to him. “Let’s just enjoy this.”

  He grinned at her. “That sounds wonderful to me,” he answered. He took a long, appreciative sniff of the air. “Smell that?” he said. “Someone’s making milarán.”

  “Milarán?”

  Ennis grinned. “You don’t know what a milarán is? Well, it’s time you found out.”

  Jenna would find that a milarán was a griddle cake made with honeyed batter and drizzled with molasses and spices. It was both sticky and delicious, and part of the fun of eating one was to lick the clinging syrup from each other’s fingers and mouth. They watched a street magician make scarves appear from empty boxes and coins vanish and reappear seemingly at will. They laughed and shouted encouragement to a pair of dwarves fighting a mock battle with wooden swords and groaned with feigned disappointment as thei
r chosen champion fell. They listened to the start of a storyteller’s tale and helped fill his bowl with coins so he’d finish the story. They ate a midday meal at an inn near the waterfront, and in the afternoon went walking along the harbor way.

  “Look!” Jenna said. “Aren’t those Saimhóir?” She pointed to a trio of dark shapes in the water, moving steadily toward the shore. The glint of blue highlights shimmered in their black fur. Jenna brushed Lámh Shábhála with her right hand and laughed. “Thraisha!” she called happily, then tugged at Ennis’ hand. “Come on!”

  They ran down the wharf to where the harbor ended in a jumble of dark rocks. The seals were just hauling out of the water as they arrived, and Thraisha gave a warble and huff of greeting. Jenna held Lámh Shábhála in her hand, opening the cloch so that the cloch-vision overlaid her own and Thraisha’s words came to her. Thraisha glowed brightly in the flow of the mage-lights’ energy.

  “May the currents bring you fish, sister-kin,” Thraisha called. “A foretelling came to me that you would be walking here today. I came to tell you first that the stone-walker you gave to Garrentha was saved. The stone-walkers in their islands-of-dead-wood-that-move . . . what is the word you use for them?” Jenna felt the touch of Thraisha’s mind on her own, and she allowed the intrusion, let the seal rummage through her thoughts. “Ah. ‘Ship’—that’s it. Garrentha kept the stone-walker afloat until the ships came. The stone-walkers in those ships pulled the stone-walker from the water, then the ships moved away from Nesting Land to Winter Home.”

  Jenna nodded. “Good,” Jenna told her. “Tell them that I thank Garrentha for doing that.” She glanced at Ennis. “And perhaps the captain was reunited with his son. I would like to believe that.”

  Ennis shrugged, and she saw that he held no such hope.

  Thraisha turned to the other seals, moaning and panting in their own tongue for a few moments. Then she turned her head back toward Jenna, the blue-white pulse of Bra dán an Chumhacht rising within the seal. “I came also to tell you another foretelling. I dreamed last night, and in that dream I saw several ships coming from Winter Home to Nesting Land.” Thraisha lowered her head, her black eyes looking mournful and sad. “These ships were full of stone-walkers in hard shells that gleamed in the sunlight, and they had sticks of bright stone in their hands. They came to Nesting Land at this very place and hauled out onto the rocks and the stone-walkers who lived here swarmed from the dry hills to meet them. I saw smoke and fire. I smelled the scent of stone-walker blood. I heard cries of pain and screams of rage. And I saw you, sister-kin.”

  Thraisha paused before she continued, as if she didn’t want to say more. “I could feel something incomplete inside you, as if you’d failed to do something you were expected to do. I could feel it like a hollowness in the fire of your soul. You stood there alone and called lightning down from the skies with Lámh Shábhála, but other sky-stones were there also, held by the hard-shelled ones, and they gathered against you. I was here, too, but I was too far away and others clochs were set again me and I couldn’t reach you. You looked for help but even though those with you held sky-stones of their own, they were beset themselves and none came to your aid. I saw you fall.”

  She stopped, and Ennis shook his head. “Your dream is wrong, water-cousin,” he told her. “My cloch will stand with Jenna as will any others held by the Order.”

  Thraisha gave a coughing pant. “I did not see you in my dream, land-cousin,” she said. “I’ll admit that surprised me. I know you would be there, if you could.”

  “Then the dream is wrong,” Ennis insisted. “It was a dream and nothing else.”

  The seal wriggled in what Jenna decided was the equivalent of a shrug. “That may be,” she said. “I only tell you what came to me. But it had the feeling of a foretelling.”

  “Do you see what will be, or only what might be?” Jenna asked.

  “I see what I see,” Thraisha answered. “I don’t know more than that.” Another cough: “I’m sorry, Holder. When I came, I could see joy in your face and I have destroyed that with my words. I wish I could give it back to you.”

  Jenna glanced back at the town. They could hear the sound of laughter and see the tops of the banners fluttering from the roofs of Market Square, just past the warehouses and fisheries that flanked the harbor front. The gaiety struck a false note now, like a song sung just off-key. Jenna could look at the harbor and imagine it filled with the warships of the tuatha, could practically see the smoke of burn ing houses while below the streets of Dún Kiil were chaotic with battle. As she stared, her right arm throbbed, her fist convulsing with the pain as if she were already there, the power of Lámh Shábhála arcing through her and breaking against the massed might of the Cloch Mór.

  “It’s only a possible future you see,” Jenna said. “It must be. The Water-Mother sent you a vision in warning. After all, Thraisha, if what you see must happen, then what use is there in telling me? If it’s destiny, then there’s nothing I could do to change it. Any action I take would still inevitably lead to the same point.”

  Thraisha wriggled again. “I don’t know the way of gods, yours or mine. I see what I see,” she repeated. “If it’s destiny, then I know I’ll soon be here with you again. I saw more, sister-kin. When you fell, the clochs turned to me and I could not swim against that current. Their magic drowned me and Bradán an Chumhacht swam from my mouth. So if it’s destiny, then it’s not only your death. It’s also mine.”

  “It’s a glimpse of maybe,” Jenna insisted. “That’s all. A warning.”

  “I hope you’re right, Holder,” Thraisha answered. Her companions were chattering loudly behind, and she turned her head toward them, her fur glistening with the movement as she listened and then looked back to Jenna. “The sweetfish have started their evening run, and it’s time for us to feed,” she told Jenna. “I will see you again, sister-kin, and I will help you any way I can.” Her gaze went to Ennis. “And you, land-cousin, I bid you farewell.”

  Thraisha waddled toward the water, moving awkwardly over the rocks and dropping into the water. One by one, her companions slipped into the water with her. Their heads regarded Jenna and Ennis for a moment, then they ducked under the next swell and were gone.

  45

  Torn Apart

  THEY walked back to the square. Though Jenna tried to pretend that nothing had changed, the joy had been drained from the day. The gaiety and laughter around them only served as a contrast, making darker the shadows that wrapped around Jenna with Thraisha’s words. She realized now that there would be no escape from the burden of Lámh Shábhála, not until it was taken from her (and with the thought, a bolt of agony shot up her right arm as if it had been torn loose from its socket) or she was dead.

  She could not escape the world: not with love, not with festivals, not by turning her back on it and secluding herself. She must be the First Holder.

  “Come on,” she told Ennis, taking his hand. She pulled him toward the square and for the next few stripes, she went from one vendor’s booth to another, watched all the performers, examined all the wares with a fierceness and energy that surprised Ennis. She plunged into the fair as if she could obliterate herself in its bright celebration. By the time torches were lit along the square and the bonfires roared on the three hilltops around the city, Jenna was exhausted and certain that she knew what she must do.

  They took supper in one of the inns just off the square, and afterward strolled out toward the crowd gathering around a temporary stage at the north end for a performance by a group of mummers. They were stopped by a page from the keep, who came running up to them. “Mages! There you are! I’ve been looking for you for over a stripe now . . .”

  Ennis laughed at the boy, panting, his hands on knees as he tried to catch his breath. “What is it, Aidan? Is Máister Cléurach wondering where we got to?”

  “Not Máister Cléurach,” Aidan answered, gulping air. “It’s the Rí. The procession to the square is ready to start a
nd he wishes the two of you to be at his side when he enters.” He nodded toward one of the side streets leading away from the square. “Follow me,” he told them. “I was told to take you this way.”

  They followed after him down the narrow lane. Jenna could nearly touch the houses on either side and little light made its way here from the square, only the milky light of the moon providing illumination. There were few people here, all of whom pressed back to let the three well-dressed Riocha pass. Aidan was well ahead of Jenna and Ennis, stopping near an intersection and waving. “This way! Hurry!”

  They heard the horns announcing the Rí from the square behind them. Ennis stopped, a hand on Jenna’s arm. The page was looking back toward the square with a puzzled expression. “I thought—” Ennis began.

  The page collapsed to his knees, his eyes widening as if startled. His mouth opened but no words came. He fell face-down into the mud of the lane. Three arrows protruded from his back.

  “Jenna!” Ennis yelled. He pushed her into a doorway across the street as more arrows suddenly hissed past them. Ennis grunted, and Jenna saw a wooden shaft blossom in red at his shoulder. He staggered backward against the wall across the lane from her. His eyes on her, he shook his head as she started to run across to him. His hand closed around his cloch.

  A moment later, she did the same, ripping open Lámh Shábhála so that its power roared out like a rogue wave.

  She could sense Ennis and his cloch, along with a trio of Cloch Mór lurking just down the lane. Several dozen people were moving toward them from the front as well as behind. She had no chance to identify any of the ambushers or judge their intentions: the three Cloch Mórs arrayed against her struck.

  They concentrated on Jenna. As she crouched in the doorway, a rush of heavy wings beat the air above her. She looked up to see a demonic horror above: twice as tall as herself, skin burnished like bronze over massive muscles, clawed fingers and feet, and a brick-red face scowling with anger under folds and horns. Leathery wings sprang from the creature’s back. Looking at the thing dredged an elemental feeling of revulsion and horror from her, as if this were a creature formed of ancient racial fears or memory. Jenna wondered at first if it was simply an illusion, but the apparition slammed into the structure above her, its claws ripping deep into mortar and plaster. The mage-demon was real and physical enough. The house shuddered at the im pact, and Jenna had to use part of Lámh Shábhála’s power to shield herself from falling stone and beams. The creature howled, roaring words in no tongue that she had ever heard before as it started to fall toward her, but she pushed it away. It snarled and spat, slamming again into the second story of the house as its great wings flailed the air. In frustration, it ripped away at the house, pulling it apart as if it were made of paper and throwing pieces of the ruin down toward her.